


Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Humiliation

by PoppyAlexander



Series: Vicious/Delicious: Johnstrade BDSM Stories [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BDSM, Forced Feminization, Greg is a beast of a Dom, Humiliation, Jewelry, John goes down fighting, M/M, Public Humiliation, Sort Of, Sub!John, dom!Greg
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-11-01
Updated: 2017-11-01
Packaged: 2019-01-27 16:23:30
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12585892
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PoppyAlexander/pseuds/PoppyAlexander
Summary: "You don't want to go up for rent with your arse already smacked to hell, do you?"





	Kinktober Ficlets 2017: Humiliation

John had grimaced when he’d seen the adornments, laid out inelegantly on the desk in the corner of Greg’s sitting room, looking cheap and tacky.

“No. Not for me,” he’d protested, rumpling the upper corner of his mouth in distaste, shaking his head.

“You’re right. They’re  _not_  for you,” Greg had replied firmly, and the expression on his face, the tone of voice, were like heavy hands dragging down the length of John’s body, pulling him along. Greg added, “You’ll wear them,” in a tone that invited no further debate.

John had bitten his lips, swallowed further argument he recognised as pointless.

So now he was stood, stripped of his clothes, striped by licks from the narrow leather tongues of the quick, light cat-o-nine-tails, in the middle of Greg’s favourite private room at the club, with Greg’s thick fingers working at his nipples, unscrewing the beads from the ends of his barbell piercings, uncareful, scraping and tugging, pinching and digging in. Between the front edges of his teeth John held the jewelry he had curled his lip at. Greg pinched one set between finger and thumb, pulled, and John struggled to release it without letting the other fall.

Greg held it up before John’s face, gently jiggling it to make it chime: garish yellow-gold, a dozen or more varied lengths of tiny-linked chain, each with a bell-like bead at its end. Each ripple and shake set it ringing, and the noise was pleasant enough--gently, sweetly musical--but the delicacy of the thing put John off. He did not want to be made into something pretty, to be preened over and fancied. He wanted to be made into the dirt his man would walk on.

The golden tassel was gathered at the top in a filigree bead hung from another short length of the fine chain; the top end of the chain bore a bead with threads to screw onto the barbell running through John’s nipple. With each move he made, the thing would shimmer and ring, dangling down the front of his chest like a lady’s long, ornate earring.

Greg first attached it to the inner end the barbell, leaned back to look, changed his mind, moved it to the outer end.

“Aren’t you going to be the darling girl tonight?” Greg teased, with cruelty in his voice. John was no girl; he had given himself to Greg as his man, to be owned and enjoyed, played with and punished, but he was no goddamn  _girl_. John let out a growl.

“Behave, or it’s the paddle. You don’t want to go up for rent with your arse already smacked to hell, do you?”

John gave him a furious look, not averting his eyes. He wasn’t all the way in it yet, always fighting to the bitter end. But he shut his mouth and shook his head. To go up on the blocks for bids wearing evidence of his inability to submit--proof he’d needed punishment before even being tested--would have set him burning with shame. His man, known in the club as G-Man, had a reputation for a heavy hand, for demanding and receiving complete respect and complete submission. John was resolved to represent him well.

Greg finished attaching the ringing tassels, flicked and stroked them with his fingers to make them sing. John set his jaw high, turned his eyes to the ceiling, trying to swallow his pride but choking on the lump it left in his throat.

“Here, now, Pet,” Greg said then, and reached into the pocket of his trousers. “There’s another bit.” There was a soft, slithering sound, and a metallic shiver, and more ringing. John let go a sound of distress, and Greg grabbed him by the jaw--hard--tilting his face to make John look. More fine chains, more beads, more bells. Greg’s thumb dragged, digging, across his cheek and pressed inside his mouth; John opened for it, caressed it with his tongue, sucked it. He lowered his gaze. Greg hummed.

In a moment the hateful thing was wound around his waist, and John could feel it rolling and settling. Greg gave him a pinch on the thigh and John’s flinch set everything jingling. John let out another animal groan, through clenched teeth and tight lips.

“Quiet, you.” Greg pinched him again, almost overlapping the previous spot, and John gasped, his body jerking away from the pain, and all the bells shimmered, and he was  _not_ going up for rent to another Dom for the night wearing these ridiculous, cheesy things--ringing like the bells on some fucking pampered kitten’s collar every time he moved. He imagined the noise that would come if he were being paddled, or caned. . .or fucked. . .

His face burned hot, his ears even hotter. His eyes and nose prickled. Greg went into the small black duffel bag he’d brought with them, and came out with something small enough to close entirely in his fist.

“Sweet little thing,” Greg sneered at him, and fingered the tassel swinging from John’s right nipple. “How lovely you are.”

“Please,” John could not stop from saying. Make him crawl, plug his arse, tie him into a helpless bundle, beat him black and blue but please,  _please_ , don’t make him do this. Be like this. Look like this.

“If you keep this up I’m going for the bit. Shut it. Am I understood?”

“Yes, G.”

Everyone around here called him that, G for G-Man. When John said it, though, they both knew it as a sign of their bond, and of John’s respect. Between them, it was G for  _Guardian_.

Greg hummed a harsh acknowledgement and got a grip on John’s jaw again. John saw a flash of bright red, felt an oily smear across his lips, then Greg’s thumb working across them, spreading and perfecting. John wanted to pull his head back, tried, but Greg held him. Another slick application of the rancid-rose-smelling stuff, and John’s hands slapped around Greg’s wrists, trying to pull his hands away from John’s face.

“Have you forgotten what you are, slut?” Greg barked at him, and gave him a slap on the hip that pressed the chains around his waist too hard into his skin, biting and scraping. The pain dragged John back down.

“Please,” he begged, and he knew he sounded pathetic but he couldn’t help himself.

Back into the duffel, and Greg drew out red leather straps and cuffs, and in no time at all had wrestled John’s arms behind him, fixed at the elbows and wrists.

“Look how proud you are now,” Greg mocked, walking a circle around John, whose chest was thrust forward by virtue of his shoulders pulling back. “Showing off your new jewelry. Won’t you make a pretty noise while you pour wine at your Dom’s tea party. When you’re being stroked like a cat, called sweet names.”

John did not want to be spoiled. He did not want to be treated mildly, then turned over a knee and lightly spanked with some gentle hand. That was not their way. That was not what he needed. His eyes went from prickling to burning and he sniffed. He mashed his painted lips together, trying to wipe away the stain.

Greg stepped close against his back then, pressed an open hand against John’s pubic bone to pull his body backward against him. Beside John’s ear, a harsh whisper. “Is it too much? Too difficult? Answer.”

“Yes,” John blurted, without hesitation. He wanted Greg’s boot on his neck. He wanted to be whipped and used up and told he was a greedy slut. He was no one’s pretty prize. He couldn’t be.

“Good.”

Greg’s hands, a metal bar, leather straps--the bit. John hated it not just because it stole his words, but because he could not close his lips to swallow, and so saliva would run out of his mouth, down his chin. . .For Greg to see him that way was trial enough; to be put on public display was hideous. John squeezed his eyes shut against tears.

Once the bit was secured, Greg wrapped a hand tight around John’s bicep and began to pull him toward the door. John fought him, pulling back and away, shaking his head, his face and chest on fire with embarrassment. The cursed bells rang and rang, the chains sweeping against his skin as they swung. He would rather have been beaten with a belt while he licked his man’s dirty boot than have to stand proud and tall wearing this delicate adornment, waiting to be bought and borrowed. He would have rather bowed down with his forehead on the floor than be paraded down this corridor, to take his place on the blocks, painted and pretty and perhaps even worthy of someone’s admiration.

John wished he could not hear the merry music of his journey to the front room, where so many people had gathered to bid on each others’ toys. He felt a dribbling at the corners of his mouth, his painted lips feeling sticky and strange, his arms bound behind him to thrust out his chest. His prick was as hot and throbby as the pulse in his throat, the blush on his neck. Greg guided him to a low platform and steadied his bound arm as he took his place.

Greg leaned close and in a cruel-edged tone that felt to John more like a kiss than a scold, he said, “Please me, slutty boy, and you’ll get what you deserve in the end.” He drew back slightly. “Look here.” John looked. “I promise.”

John lifted his chest and eased down his shoulders, and waited for the bidding to begin.


End file.
